


In Inches

by tofty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, straight blokes who nevertheless converse through closed bathroom doors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-25
Updated: 2011-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:23:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/pseuds/tofty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Inches

**Author's Note:**

> Written in an hour, as per the dictates of a challenge on [sherlock-flashfic](http://sherlock-flashfic.dreamwidth.org/). Thanks to the inimitable Bow for the quick-and-dirty beta, and to the inestimable Dahlia for the Britpick.

John sank down with a long sigh until only his head remained above water. It had been a long two days, all the way round; he planned to stay in the bath until the ache in his shoulder had dissipated, no matter how long it took. Possibly, he was going to sleep here, and wake only to replenish the hot water. He hadn’t decided yet. He had plenty of time to decide.

He considered the magazine resting on the toilet seat. It seemed too much trouble, on the whole, to lean forward the ten inches or so it would take to retrieve it, and so he simply eyed it vaguely for a while before his eyes slipped shut.

The water steamed around him, welcoming.

He drifted.

“John.” He hadn’t heard the footsteps, but Sherlock’s voice was right outside the bathroom door. “John, I’m just reading an article with the most fascinating premise. If it’s correct -- and I’ll have to verify their data through my own experiments, of course; I wonder how soon I can get to the morgue at Bart’s -- it will entirely change the way we detect fungi on human corpses. It’s a tripartite hypothesis, and the first part in particular I think would be immensely--”

Oh, God, he wasn’t going to stop, was he? “Sherlock,” said John, in what he hoped was a reasonable tone of voice. “Do me a favour and look up from the article, and tell me what you see.”

Sherlock cleared his throat obligingly. “I see a white-painted four-panel door, at least three, more likely four, coats of slightly chipped paint, lead paint for the bottom coat, with--”

“Yes, thanks, _door_ was in fact the answer I was looking for,” John said, eager to interrupt the flow before Sherlock managed to hit his stride. “I’m certain you’ve noted that it’s shut, correct?”

“Obviously.” John couldn’t see Sherlock’s face, but he could imagine its supercilious expression. He’d seen it often enough, after all.

“Right, then. I’ve just thought of a new and very important house rule. Are you listening carefully?”

“Yes.”

“When that door is shut and you know me to be on the other side of it, naked or not, you may not interrupt unless it’s an actual emergency. Understood?”

“Yes, although I think you’ll find upon reflection that the possible introduction of new fungal identification methods _is_ a sort of --”

“No. It is not an emergency. Trust me on this: not an emergency. The only things I would entertain as emergencies while bathing involve immediate danger to human life, are we clear on this?”

“But --”

“No buts, Sherlock. Are we clear?”

“...Yes.” The single word managed to pack levels of sullen and reluctant previously unseen outside the bounds of adolescence.

“We really are?”

“ _Yes_ , John, all right. Yes.”

“Good.”

John allowed himself a moment to savour his rare victory, and sank back again, closing his eyes. His fingertips dapped the water lightly, and he smiled at the pleasing sound they made. The water continued, with the greatest of good will, to steam.

A paper rustled out in the passageway.

John bolted upright with a slosh. “Sherlock, please tell me you’re not standing outside that door, waiting for me.”

“I’m not. If you _must_ know, I’m sitting. How long are you planning on being in there? Because I’ve just thought of--”

“Sherlock, no. Please, no, please, just go away and allow me this tiny, tiny privacy.”

“Privacy.” Sherlock sounded revolted. “Privacy is overrated.”

“Oh, it’s overrated, is it? I’m surprised you even admit to knowing what the word _privacy_ means,” John snapped.

“I know what it _means_ , John. I just don’t happen to think it’s _important_ when weighed alongside other --”

John slapped a palm flat down on the water with a splash. “Sherlock, I don’t want to debate this now. Just _go away_. We can talk about it when I get downstairs.”

“It’s my flat too, you know.” The disembodied voice hinted at a cool dignity, an indication to John that Sherlock was a bit, well, _hurt_. “I am free to move about the place at will, and I’m choosing to rest here for a while.”

John dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Oh my God. Fine. Fine. Fine. Read me the fucking article.”

“Oh, I won’t read the whole thing at you. I've made a list of highlights to--”

Sherlock’s voice faded into a soothing drone as John submerged himself further. Ears underwater and face above it, he listened for individual words or meanings, couldn’t hear anything beyond the drone, and, satisfied, relaxed.

He wouldn’t be excused for not listening this time round -- hell, Sherlock was probably scribbling out a pop quiz as he spoke -- and he’d be treated to the entire discourse again, perhaps with the complete text of the journal article thrown in for good measure, as punishment. So this counted as only a Pyrrhic victory, but still, it was a victory, and you took those as they came, with Sherlock.

John breathed, and the warm water shifted around him, slipping into and out of the hollows of his eyes. On the other side of the door, Sherlock posited away.


End file.
